


Cities in dust

by hypsoline



Category: American Gods (TV), American Gods - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Ancient Egyptian Deities, M/M, New Gods, Old Gods, Old Married Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 16:59:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11189451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypsoline/pseuds/hypsoline
Summary: An Old God, a forgotten word. ‘He is what he is’, Mr. Jacquel whispers into Mr. Ibis’ neck, on full moon nights. The lights of the modern world rob the sky of all its ancient mystery, perhaps of its Gods too. But new ones have taken their place, and thus the divinity has been passed on, not completely alienated.





	Cities in dust

**Author's Note:**

> Set before the beginning of the series or Shadow's journey. Mostly based on the TV series redemption, written after the "Git Gone" episode aired. Threw in some references from the book and other mythology. It can be read as a stand alone as well.

_IBIS AND JACQUEL. A FAMILY FIRM. FUNERAL PARLOR. SINCE 1863._

_\-- American Gods, chapter seven._

 

 

The letters read in bold golden ink, the fashion of two hundred years ago, hanging above their parlor, the wooden panels painted black. Two hundred years barely feel like any time at all, or they seem like all the time they had in these new lands, since Mr. Jacquel and Mr. Ibis set up residence and shop.

Dapper gentlemen they were. Their skin a rich brown, their voices velvety, their gazes wise. Mr. Jacquel had been the one to have the idea first. His job so precise which laid in those enduring hands, used to fine calligraphy and dissection, which knew the secrets of organ and flesh but also of souls.

 

Mr. Ibis knew they had been fortunate. He had known countless others lost to time and forgetfulness. Humans do not last, and neither do their empires, their faiths; their time is limited and therefore so fruitful in the short lives they carry out. The need for gods goes hand in hand with the need for something else, on earth and beyond. The need for belief, in the supernatural or else.

In the old days their names had been repeated and worshipped every day, with special seasons, days in their honor. As Old Gods’ often were loved, now they were left to be remembered in white faced museums and discussed in college room classes. Remembered of in the silver screen, the moving pictures, one of the New Gods who took as many images as there were in the world. Maybe they were even made mascots of too, Mr. Ibis had seen a fluffy toy of an old death deity in the arms of a child at the British Museum. Curious, most curious.

 

Still, an existence, an existence is better than none.

 

They are allowed exist by the powers that be, but only this much, only this way, in this realm. Mr. Ibis has often wondered how many of them still exist, particles’ among all continents where their belief was once held, even if by just one person, even if just for a second. They’re Old Gods, but also, off the Old Gods. All different but all together the same.

 

As soon as he left his land he knew, he knew his land wouldn’t be devoid of him, or Mr. Jackel or Bast or any of the others. They had simply moved, and yet all had stayed behind. Temples, pyramids, the beautiful shores of the Nile, the big black sky painted with gold stars at night. Thousands of years of an empire thrown to the sands, and their stories still manifested, still brought to life from mouth to mouth, from ear to ear. Humans would invade and change and die, and invade and change and die, as they did all over the world. And yet all their statues would pertain the same, their proud stances sharp against the dark nights of Egypt. A reminder of other times, a gift left to them.

 

***

It was a different matter in these new lands. _New lands_ , for both Mr. Jacquel and Mr. Ibis refuse to call this land “the new world” unless carried by the conversation.

It was a land as old as theirs had been, just with a different story and a different beginning. Perhaps a similar end. They would see, as Mr. Ibis was sure him and Mr. Jacquel would be there to witness the final draw of the curtain.

 

***

Bast has grown comfortable in her cat form, the one she was the most adored as. They leave her plates of fresh cream milk and honeyed meat for supper by the window. As she is often around to her own things and both of them have their jobs to do as well. Her soft meows sometimes echo through the night, before she speaks to them. A voice of honey that tells them about the world outside, what others are up to. That is how they knew of their own kin, and sometimes, it had been better not to know.

 

“A shame what happened to Horus.”, Mr. Ibis often says aloud, biting on the tip of his feather. Mr. Jacquel looks at him with dark eyes, unreadable and unemotional as his hands sculpt a lifelike face off a corpse.

“Yes. But no matter now.” He finally says, his voice low like thunder.

Yes, a shame what had happened. What had happened to so many High Gods. Gods so worshipped and loved by centuries and generations that everyone thought invincible, unreachable. They had grown mad and now were comfortable in just being what they initially were, a flower, a stream, a bird. Their hearts resenting humans, tired of them.

The Parcae had spoken to him last, as he renounced to be free in the high blue skies. South to them, where the earth is most red and the desert nearly brings his sacred memory a flash of home.

 

 The higher you rise in the skies, the highest can your fall be. Mr. Ibis had met Icarus, not a god, not a demigod, but a boy with broken wings. And this was centuries ago, before the new lands, when there were still leaders of the ancient rule in Egypt.

He had told Mr. Ibis, - or Thoth, one of his names then -, that he was made this way in his many lives and would have to atone eternally. In order to reach his Helios, the Sol of the etruscans, Thoth’s own ancient Ra, but never to grab it. Thoth had given him warm wine, the ripest fruits of the Nile and a headrest made of straw. He had left him to eat and rest. The boy had been gone the next day, like the bird he had become to be.

Now, they have all met in this land, where their names are tales or stories. He was sure Icarus was in here too, somewhere in between the cities in the east and the beaches of the west coast, chasing after his Sun. All civilizations had him, or some form of him; the metaphor of greed in the body of a disgraced and tragic beautiful young man.

 

They were valued, but with measure. The knowledge of their names and antiquity had come with a price, as all things in this new land don’t come free. They were an echo of the old civilizations, an echo of the past, of heritage, of trivial facts, of pop culture. They had met Pop Culture once, Mr. Jacquel did not like him one bit, all jokes and no value, always changing ideas despite the air of aloof smartness he gave off. Mr. Ibis had been polite to shake hands and trade ideas with him, as he was wise and kind, despite the changing times.

 

***

“It is a strange land. It despises the old, threw away its weakest superstitions, the old countries superstitious. This is the land people say they come to make anew, to rewrite on what was already written. And so they do, they create New Gods. And they worship them like they once did us.”

They had been at a café in Chicago when Mr. Jacquel uttered those words, low enough for Mr. Ibis to hear over his cappuccino. They were everywhere really. Old and new, like the people to whom this land belonged before the rational, unsuperstitious men thought it was their cause to rob it and make it theirs. And then more floods came, out of necessity, out of greed, both or none. Difficult to catalog so many people, pouring in and out of life in this corner of the earth. Poor faces to pigment the cities and give it more depth, new colors and new languages; new religions to these lands, but already old and respected in the old countries. Humans were always at a clash about this. Who was first, who was best. It really mattered none at all. The Old Gods knew it, or most of them did so.

Mr. Ibis looks around, at the people around them, thinking of everything but the café they’re at. An Italian café ran by a Romanian family and selling South American and African coffee. The darkest of flavors, their favorites in big cities. The favorites of many other entities who seemed comfort in familiar tastes like these. Comfort in their old people’s dialects, foods, faiths. One ounce of belief with their sugar and dark caffeine water; it could make all the difference.

“I should get finished with my writing.”

“You should get started.”

Mr. Jacquel’s coffee is dark and black as his eyes. His face is blasé, truthful. He loves this the most about his old friend. A face Mr. Ibis will often stare at, so concentrated and honorable over decaying flesh, treating it as carefully as a porcelain doll, as a god had resided in those limbs, those bones, studying their death. And not a mere human. Mr. Jacquel often forgets them afterwards, their identities, their pasts, the weights on the scales. They come one after another, the reasons for their expiration vary and are numerous. Mr. Ibis studies them, studies them all and revisions on their lives. His library filled with books on big things and small things, wall to wall in bookshelves, on all the languages spoken on this earth, on this corner of land. To think he had Alexandria once.

 

He is amidst writing his novel, he will do it in time. He takes another sip from his coffee mug.

“I have polished the chapters, selected the subjects.”

“Yes you have. Three times before, and three times before have you trashed them, thinking of them rubbish.”

Mr. Ibis finds his cheeks burn a little.

“Oh, dear. It will all come to life, believe me. The business leaves little time to what else.”

“Indeed.”, Jacquel would know, he has done his task even before many of the Old Gods themselves were born, and were nothing but skulls on stones, scribbles atop snowy mountains, rock formations given deity. “Which is why you should dive into it. You would do fairly. I have read your texts before.”

“We Old Gods have something to say in fact. Don’t you think?”

“I think it best to stay in the old jobs. But it is not always something you can choose as I did. Destiny is not a cotton line pulling the universe together. However your gift goes to waste if not used, much like others’.”

It is a fair argument so they leave it at that and finish their afternoon strolling around. Mr. Jacquel cares little for being called an Old God, so he opens the newspaper and looks for the deceased column.

Mr. Ibis will start writing that very next evening, once they’re bathed and relaxed at home.

 

An Old God, a forgotten word. ‘He is what he is’, Mr. Jacquel whispers into Mr. Ibis’ neck, on full moon nights. The lights of the modern world rob the sky of all its ancient mystery, perhaps of its Gods too. But new ones have taken their place, and thus the divinity has been passed on, not completely alienated.

  
Mr. Ibis’ mouth always has a bitter coffee aftertaste when he thinks of this, although he has known it to be the fate of many for the longest of times.

 

***

  
  
  
Mr. Ibis starts writing. His ideas skim the parchment as he holds a bird feather and dips it in thick homemade ink he has known for so long.

 

The feather scrapes on paper, _on this journey to America, on their journey to America_ … calling this patch of land America is an invention, a generalization, but the common term will have to do. Americas come in threes like fates, north, central and south. But this country thought it would carve the name for itself alone and so the popular term caught fire. The land of dreams, nevertheless a land of death. A land of boiling pots, of all the different Americas inside this one America.

Tales and stories of all kinds. Of doom and gold, of bittersweet endings, bittersweet beginnings. Dates and religions and beliefs, what makes them gods to serve humans who no longer need them. So much to write and plenty of time. Soon the night is looming, the skies painted orange and illuminating both him and Mr. Jacquel’s back in golden tones.

“What do you want for dinner?”

The sun paints Mr. Jacquel’s eyes gold as it shoots the light directly into his gaze. He does not flinch. It reminds him of his other form, the jackal with a coat of dark fur and eyes of gold, watching the afterlife.

The sun. It had been Ra once, later Horus wore him, becoming it. Now it was a star of fire, but humans still worshipped it, in their own satirical way. Pretending old religions weren’t as serious as they take their Science to be. Pretending Science is a New God, although like other rejuvenated gods, part of her is as old as both of them are, as old as curiosity.

Mr. Jacquel takes his gloves off, washing his tools of the trade away. Everything neatly ordered and catalogued in their inventory of passing. The banality of death has been reached by them since the dawn of times.

“I will go get some food. Are you staying?”

Mr. Ibis mutters a _hmhm_ in agreement as he deeps the feather back in the ink.

“Would you like Chinese?”

The banality of easy reachable food too. Far from the times when Earth only had four corners and they were at the center of it all.

 Nobody would lay a plate of cream for them like they did to cats all over the world. Bast was still adored as she pleased, albeit without recognition.

Mr. Ibis doesn’t look up from his parchment, his writing undisturbed by the sheer domesticity both the men share. Until his face eases up.

“Ethiopian, from that new shop in the corner. Where the polish barber used to be.”

They remind him of his home, somewhat, from the time of the great Ethiopian kings and queens, and the royal bloodlines that traveled south to north the Nile. The disposition of the food in the colorful plates as if different offerings of flavors, the tenderness of the flat injera bread, everything eaten with your bare hands.

“Ethiopian it is.”

And Mr. Jacquel lets a small, tired smile form on his lips as he goes out.

 

***

 

The food has done nothing for their souls but warming up their stomachs. But is fine food, as close as they can get to the old times.  
Mr. Jacquel gives Mr. Ibis a small peck on the cheek. It is usually Mr. Ibis who can afford this. Being distracted, relaxed and the one most in charge of customer service. The one who starts their caresses and gentle nights.

In return, Mr. Ibis takes Mr. Jacquel’s hands in his, like a prayer he kisses them softly. Hands which curate death as if the finest of arts, patient hands who lead souls into the afterlife. Some souls, not all. Each one has their beliefs. And both Mr. Jacquel and Mr. Ibis have theirs.

Mr. Ibis believes in truth and wisdom. Knowledge has no decline, as curiosity oils it like breath to a fire.

Mr. Jacquel believes in a proper funeral, believes all dead should be treated the same. It is not for him to punish them, as they do so themselves: the weights of their hearts stripping them of the lies bare and exposing faults they committed once flesh and blood to fellow man. More often than not, they are evil, despicable, they throw words and screams at Mr. Jacquel as if he had been the one puppeteering their evil acts, before they get swallowed by darkness in their anger. It happens far too often. All humans believe to some point they are righteous. They do not wish to believe they are at fault.

 

“No soul is completely pure, not even a god’s.”

Mr. Ibis tells him, a tired sigh escaping his lips as they get ready for bed.

Mr. Jacquel showers every night and Mr. Ibis showers every morning. Their routines a reversed mirror of each other by now. They take each one side of the bed, warm linen beneath them and above all the stars and the gods as Nut slips away, wearing her long dress of dark blue and shining stars. Mr. Ibis places his gold-rimmed glasses neatly on the bedside table and turns off the light.

 

Mr. Jacquel’s hands are always cold on Mr. Ibis’ face and body, careful. Not as if treating a corpse or a soul, but as treating an equal. His lips, his mouth that utters low thunder and guides the dead, is always warm to him, open and dear. They pretend they hear the crickets outside, the swirling of the river as it floods and enriches the earth. They pretend to smell the aromas and clamors of the old cities falling to sleep, their music on the paths, filling the white painted houses, the clay houses, the rich palaces with life and song.

They lay naked like they had for centuries, the linen sheet over their groins like an old ceremonial dress, marking their human forms with beautiful simplicity. They are together in an order they had established and grown accustomed too. Their bare bodies seem blue in the night light and golden in the sun, like paint on old sculptures, the rich blue of the skies and the golden warmth of the old temples.

***

 

Mr. Ibis will continue on his writings tomorrow. Mr. Jacquel is expecting new clients, new phone calls. Both of them will do the accounting in the morning, and the grocery shopping in the afternoon. By evening there will be a bowl with milk and honeyed meat for Bast, who will come in through the half open window meowing and purring with love.

 

There will be gods of death as long as humanity strives, for there will always be death where life is concerned. They will receive no _thank you_ , no adoration, no word spoken nor written of acknowledgement. No bowls of milk and honey. No rich silks, incense and song of the quanun, no tambourines, nor dancing ribbons of color for their parade.

Death isn’t adored, it is feared, ignored, a fact, a boogeyman, an eventuality. Like Time, Mr. Jacquel awaits, with patient cold hands treats every corpse as a precious thing, every soul with the fairness and neutrality of justice. Mr. Ibis bites the tip of his feather, spreads the dark ink on yellow paper, drawing elegant lines and letters and words. Condensed thought in the art of thinking, the art of writing.

All around the parlor the smell of incense and ethanol. Chemical formulas and the odor of clean flesh, not yet burdened by rot. Bast sleeps in a pillow rich in red embroidery, catching the rays of the sun on her fur.

 

Here, there they are undisturbed by time, serving the humans despite their old lost names.

 

Here they are content in spending eternity, or as long as that means.


End file.
